


Phantom Shadows On The Floor

by ungracefulfalling



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Oreste à Jeun et Pylade Ivre | Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk, also im a slut for ep/grantaire parallels kill me, im very sorry for this, it's literally an OFPD au, ofpd but sadder, yes i made ofpd sadder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungracefulfalling/pseuds/ungracefulfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Two at one shot,' said he.<br/>And, turning towards Enjolras gently, he said to him:<br/>'Will you permit it?'<br/>Enjolras grasped his hand with a smile.<br/>This smile was not finished when the report was heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Shadows On The Floor

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first e/R fic and my first les mis fic of any kind for that matter. Go easy on me.

Enjolras had learned a lot about war throughout his studies and preparation for revolution. Combeferre had always said, “adequate preparation is the key to succeeding in any endeavor.” In that exact moment, with the world around him moving in slow motion, Enjolras wondered if Combeferre’s lifeless body a few feet away from his feet would still agree with the former’s statement.

Briefly, he tried to recall if he had read anything in his studies that mentioned the shot of a gun being louder if you were at the wrong end of one. He didn’t remember the shots being this _loud_ when he was the one pulling the trigger.

He counted the shots as he heard them being fired. The world was moving so slowly, he wondered if he could feasibly tug on Grantaire’s hand and pull them away from the bullets before they could reach them. Enjolras had also learned a lot about death throughout his studies and preparation for revolution.

Not an inherently religious man, Enjolras had never given much thought to the idea of an afterlife or salvation. He was incredibly aware that it would take a miracle for all of Les Amis to survive their fight, but he had also had hopes that at least a few of his friends would keep their flame burning after the dust settled. If he had thought Patria was a cruel, cold mistress, Irony and Fate were even crueler ones.

As sudden as any striking blow, Enjolras’s world went dark. He couldn’t remember whether or not he had read about death resulting in darkness, only that death and darkness were often linked in literature. He faintly recalled reading about connections between death and pain, and feeling none, immersed completely in his thoughts, Enjolras assumed that he was dead. The world was still moving slowly, and darkness still plagued his vision, even though he was sure he hadn’t closed his eyes.

The world started moving at its common pace again when could no longer feel Grantaire’s hand in his. Suddenly, the darkness wasn’t infinite nothingness but curly strands of onyx, obscuring his view of the National Guard. The cynic was no longer beside him but in front of him and before Enjolras could move or speak or push or shout, the world picked up its pace, as if it were making up for the time it lost when it slowed.

Enjolras was on the floor next, Grantaire’s weight on top of him and one of his hands concealing his face from the eyes of the Guard. If they were to spare them a glance, Enjolras’ face would be veiled and Grantaire’s blood would be enough for them to suspect that they were both dead. Enjolras wanted to scream, but couldn’t find the ability to do so. Grantaire’s blood was soaking through Enjolras’ clothing and when he finally found the ability to move, the National Guard had gone, running out of the Musain and back onto the streets to kill anyone they had missed.

Sitting up, Enjolras spoke Grantaire’s name quietly; a question. The man was motionless, sprawled across Enjolras’ lap, still bleeding. He knew that the answer to the question was inevitable silence, but he asked it nonetheless.

Instead of silence, however, he was answered with a feeble laugh that turned into a sharp intake of breath and then a groan. Enjolras was snapped back into reality and impulsively pressed one of his hands over Grantaire’s worst wound; the one on the side of his stomach, which was profusely bleeding.

Grantaire’s breath hitched again as he tried to pry Enjolras’ hand away from the wound but the latter refused to budge.

“Stop,” Grantaire protested, as forcibly as he could. He met Enjolras’ eyes and laid one of his own hands over the one that Enjolras was applying pressure with.

“No,” Enjolras snapped, looking around with frantic, terrified eyes. “You can make it, you will live.” Grantaire was so pale he looked almost translucent and the blood seeping from his other bullet wounds was coating the ground. Enjolras let out a shaking breath and pressed his free hand to Grantaire’s shoulder, where another deep wound was. He closed his eyes, trying to stop himself from thinking about Combeferre’s body lying across from him and Joly’s crumbled by a table in the corner.

“I’m not worth your tears,” Grantaire offered, sounding too light and airy for a man who was currently bleeding out on the floor.

Opening his wet eyes and staring angrily down at the calm face of Grantaire in his lap, Enjolras applied more pressure to his stomach wound and sighed. Shaking his head, he squeezed his eyes shut again; catching a glimpse of Courfeyrac’s body slumped over a chair.

“You asked permission to die _with_ me, R,” Enjolras said weakly, his anger fading into a dull ache in his chest. “What have you _done_?”

Grantaire smiled up at him, trying again to grab the hand that was applying pressure to his stomach. “I didn’t ask for permission to die with you,” he coughed shakily. “I simply asked permission to hold your hand.” He paused. “And die _for_ you if I were able.”

He met his eyes tenderly and breathed sharply again. It was obviously becoming a challenge for Grantaire to breathe. Enjolras removed his blood-soaked hand from Grantaire’s stomach, wiping it on his shirtsleeves and placing it on the side of Grantaire’s face.

The man’s eyes widened and he looked up at Enjolras in confusion. As far as he knew, this statue disdained him. Grantaire himself knew that he revolved around Enjolras as though stuck in his orbit, but the other man had always regarded him with patient tolerance, at best. Not to mention the fact that Enjolras so rarely showed this level of intimacy to _anyone_ , and here he was, cupping the cheek of the drunk, adoring, skeptic whom he _tolerated_ at meetings. Considering he might already dead, Grantaire decided that there truly was nothing to lose.

“I did love you,” he breathed, taking Enjolras’ red stained hand off of his face to hold.

Enjolras stared at him, closing his eyes and squeezing his hand. He leaned down and kissed Grantaire’s forehead, as he had done to M. Mabeuf and as he had seen Marius do to Eponine after she was gone.

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras in amazement, eyes still wide and popping against his pale skin. When Enjolras leaned down again to press a light kiss to his lips, Grantaire was pretty sure that, yes, he was already dead.

“I truly have no idea what I’m going to do,” Enjolras sighed, tears welling up in his eyes again as he looked around the Musain and then down at Grantaire in his lap. He looked so young all of a sudden, scared and alone in a room of mostly dead bodies. He really wasn’t the emotionless, fine marble that many believed him to be; he was only a child.

“You will figure _something_ out, I know you will,” Grantaire tried, spluttering a bit on the blood suddenly rising in his throat. “I believe in you.”

Enjolras gripped his hand tightly, trying to decide whether or not he should watch the light fade from Grantaire’s eyes. He had watched everyone he had ever loved die and he wasn’t sure he could take any more of it. Instead of watching death consume Grantaire’s features, he kept his eyes locked on their intertwined fingers. When his grip went slack, Enjolras dared to look at his face, lifeless and serene, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips.

The quiet of the room became suffocating and Enjolras’ eyes darted from Combeferre’s body to Joly’s to Bahorel’s to Courfeyrac’s. Turning to look out the window, taking in a shaking breath, he looked to the dismembered barricade and the scattered bodies. His gaze moved from Feuilly to Bossuet to Jean Prouvaire’s body, which was still on the wrong side of the barricade, where the National Guard had held him hostage. Tilting his head down to look at Grantaire and realizing that Marius was nowhere to be found, he grabbed Grantaire’s cold hand again and leaned his head back against the wall of the café.

The weight of a body on his legs was starting to become painful, but Enjolras ignored the numb feeling in his legs and stared around the deserted Musain. As silent tears streamed down his cheeks, he sang quietly to himself.

 

 _"There’s_ _a grief that can’t be spoken_

_There’s a pain goes on and on..."_

**Author's Note:**

> This literally only happened because I started thinking about enjolras singing Empty Chairs At Empty Tables. Apollo-gies.
> 
> The title is also from Empty Chairs just bc they're on the floor the whole time sorry for the sad.


End file.
